Innocent Blood(15)

She wanted nothing more than to lengthen it, to linger in his arms, maybe show him the empty hay loft upstairs, but she stepped back, drawn away by a larger concern.

“Blackjack,” she said. “My horse. We have to get him inside. Something’s out there in the hills.”

She turned to the door—as a horse’s scream erupted, ripping through the night and quickly cutting off. Before anyone could move, a heavy object thudded against the neighboring wall. They fled deeper into the stables, to where the other horses were boarded in stalls. She looked toward the door.

No, please, no . . .

She pictured her large gelding, with his trusting eyes and soft nose, the way he pranced when happy, and his gentle neighs that greeted her whenever she entered the barn.

Jordan readied his black Heckler & Koch MP7, a mean-looking machine pistol.

She lifted her small Glock 19, recognizing a problem. “I need something bigger.”

Jordan handed his flashlight to Nate and reached to his belt. He pulled out his Colt 1911 and passed it to her, the same gun he had loaned to her often in the past. She wrapped her fingers around the grip and felt safer.

She turned to give her Glock to Nate, to offer him some protection—when a stranger appeared, stepping out of the deeper shadows behind him and startling her. The man wore a formal dark blue uniform, with two gold crosses embroidered on his lapels.

A chaplain?

“I hate to interrupt your happy reunion  ,” the stranger said. “But it’s time we thought about leaving here. I searched for other exits, but the main door remains the wisest path.”

“This is Christian,” Jordan introduced. “Friend of Rhun’s, if you get my drift.”

In other words, Sanguinist.

Nate’s voice trembled. “The professor’s car is parked about fifty yards away. Could we make it that far?”

As answer, an unnatural screeching pierced the night.

From the stalls all around, the horses stamped and shouldered into their gates, whinnying their growing terror. Even they knew escape was the only hope.

“What’s waiting for us out there?” Jordan asked, his weapon fixed on the door.

“From its smell and hisses, I believe it’s a cougar,” Christian said. “Albeit a tainted one.”

Tainted?

Erin went colder. “You’re talking about a blasphemare.”

The chaplain bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Blasphemare were beasts that had been corrupted by the blood of a strigoi, poisoned into monstrous incarnations of their natural forms, with hides so tough that Sanguinists made armor out of their skins.

Nate sucked in a quick breath. She touched him with one hand and felt him shiver. She didn’t blame him. A blasphemare wolf had once savaged him badly.

She had to get Nate out of here.

A ripping, splintering sound erupted to their left. Nate swung the flashlight toward the noise. Four hooked claws shredded through the thick redwood wall. Panicked, Nate fired the Glock at it.

The claws vanished, followed by another yowl, sounding angrier.

“I think you pissed it off,” Jordan said.

“Sorry,” Nate said.

“No worries. If you hadn’t fired, I would’ve.”

The cat bowled into the same wall, shaking the rafters, as if trying to break inside.

“Time to go,” Christian said and pointed to the door ahead. “I’ll exit first, try to draw it off, and you follow in a count of ten. Make straight for Erin’s Land Rover and get moving.”

“What about you?” Jordan asked.

“If I’m lucky, pick me up. If not, leave me.”

Before anyone could argue, Christian covered the distance to the door in a breath. He grabbed a handle and shoved open the front doors. In front of him stretched an expanse of dust and grass. In the distance stood her beat-up Land Rover and the shiny Lincoln town car. Both looked much farther away than when she had ridden up on Blackjack a moment ago.

Christian stepped into the night, illuminated by a lamp over the door. A flash of silver showed that he’d drawn a blade, then he vanished to the left.

Jordan kept his gun up, plainly starting a countdown in his head.

Erin turned away, remembering Blackjack. She hurried along the line of six stalls and began releasing the catches, swinging the doors open. She wouldn’t leave the horses trapped in here to die as Blackjack had. They deserved a chance to run.

Already frightened, the horses thundered out of the stalls and swept between Jordan and Nate. Gunsmoke followed last. Nate ran his fingers along the mare’s sweating flanks as the horse raced by, as if longing to accompany her. Reaching the door, the horses fled out into the night.

“That’s a ten count,” Jordan said and waved his free arm toward the open door.